


Tomorrow

by thativy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, self-doubting, the boys wondering if they'll survive the revolution, this wasn't meant to be sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4192269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thativy/pseuds/thativy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The funeral of general Lamarque would take place on the following day. The members of Les Amis de l'ABC were waiting, each of them passing the time the way they deemed the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

Jean Prouvaire sat on his bed, an empty notebook in his lap.

The candle on his bedside table was already half gone but he hadn't managed to write a single word. The notebook had inhabited his desk for months and now would've been the moment to finally write in it, but Prouvaire couldn't get the words out. He had bought the notebook for the purpose of recording all the events of the upcoming revolution, which was only one day away now. He could have written about his feelings, his thoughts, how they had got there, what had to be changed... but no words came out. It felt like there was a block between him and the words which usually poured out so easily.

Frustrated, he stood up and paced here and there in the room, trying to look for an inspiration. He knew he should have written letters to his family and friends outside Paris, just in case something happened and he wouldn't be able to confront them later in person. He also knew he should have rested since the following day would be the most important in his life so far. His mind just didn't want to let him sit still and concentrate.

He was not ashamed to admit he was afraid. Compared to the other members of Les Amis de l'ABC, he was only a child in his years and inexperienced in everything concerning a revolution. On the other hand, the thought of death itself wasn't so frightening to him; at least, if he died, he would die while doing the right thing for his country. But he didn't believe he would die. To him it seemed very likely they would succeed. A change would come. And because a huge change was coming, it would have been even more important to write something down about it.

Giving up, he sat again on his bed and opened the notebook. _Tomorrow_ , he wrote. No other words came out. He decided to continue in the morning and blew the suffering candle out.

\- - - - -

“Everything will change tomorrow,” Joly said, his fingers tapping the table restlessly. Bossuet wanted to lay a hand on them and calm the man but in a rather crowded alehouse that was not a good idea. The nature of their relationship, after all, was something a lot of people didn't appreciate.

“That is true, my friend, because after tomorrow we will be heroes,” Bahorel replied, taking a large sip of his mug. He had drunk a lot more than he probably should have. Bossuet himself had restrained himself from drinks since if his luck was usually bad, it would be even worse on the following day if he drank tonight. He didn't want to risk it. Besides, Joly needed someone sane beside him.

“Are you sure?” the medical student asked, putting his hands into his lap as he finally noticed how distracting their constant moving had to be.

“Of course,” Bahorel answered easily, leaning back in his chair. “The people will rise. I am sure of it; we've worked so hard and spread awareness so well they dare not stay in their homes when we fight for their rights!”

“I just wish the whole thing would be over already,” Joly whispered so that only Bossuet could hear.

Bossuet wished the same. He didn't doubt the group's success; the time for a change was ripe and as Bahorel had said, they had worked on the ground level so hard it just had to be effective. What Bossuet worried about was his own safety since he was an unlucky man: he would surely be the first, unfortunate one to take a shot. But that would be better than watching his friends die if someone else was to get killed.

Of course he worried for Joly, too. A lot. The medical student was very dear to him and their time together had been relatively short. Bossuet wasn't ready to let go of that just yet. And what would Musichetta say if he stayed alive, after all, a hero, but Joly would not be there to share the moment with them? The thought was unbearable.

“Are you feeling well? You're very pale,” Joly asked, carefully putting his hand on Bossuet's knee under the table. The bald man chuckled and nodded.

“I just worry about you and tomorrow. That's all,” he explained. The look in Joly's eyes was very warm as he squeezed his friend's leg.

“I'll be alright. I promise that if you promise me you'll be alright, too,” he said. Sometimes he could be such a child but that was one of the things Bossuet loved about him.

“I promise,” he said and knew it was a lie. But if it made Joly feel better, it would be an acceptable one.

“I'll fetch one more ale for myself before we go. Will you take one, Joly? Bossuet?” Bahorel interrupted. He would need help to get home safely.

“Wine for me, please,” Joly said.

“I'll pass,” Bossuet added. Bahorel stood up and swayed off, a huge grin on his face.

“After tomorrow everything will be alright,” Joly said, having found his courage from somewhere. Bossuet wished he could believe the same.

\- - - - -

Marius Pontmercy wanted to die.

If Cosette was to go to England, he had no reason to live, no reason to stay, no reason for anything at all. He hadn't known the girl for long but his feelings for her were so strong he had never felt anything of the like. He was meant to be with Cosette, meant to be by her side. And now she was leaving and there was nothing he could do about it.

He wondered if things would've been different if he had introduced himself to monsieur Fauchelevent early, perhaps during the time they had visited the same park. According to Cosette, the old man had a gentle heart despite his rough surface, so he could have understood. Now it just was too late.

He wondered where his friends were or if he was even allowed to call them friends; he had gone to the meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC a couple of times, but his opinions had always been shot down like pigeons on a hunting trip. On the top of all things, Enjolras despised Bonaparte so much they couldn't discuss anything concerning politics without managing to offend each other. Courfeyrac was kind and good but Marius hadn't seen much of him lately. He too, probably, was busy in preparing for the funeral of general Lamarque.

What should Marius do? Should he look for Cosette once more? Should he join his friends in the revolution? The fate of France didn't feel important compared to the love of his life which was lost. Hopeless, he blew the candle out and settled onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow. Maybe the decision could wait until tomorrow.

\- - - - -

“He's asleep,” Courfeyrac announced as he sat down on Combeferre's desk. The medical student had offered Feuilly to sleep in his home for the night so that he could rest well before the great day. The workman had seemed exhausted for the last couple of weeks so he had accepted the comforts of a good bed with little resistance.

Somehow also Courfeyrac had decided to stay the night in Combeferre's apartment, for which the medical student was glad. After all, next to Enjolras Courfeyrac was his best friend. Since Enjolras had announced he wanted to be alone that night, it was good to have Courfeyrac there.

“Good,” Combeferre nodded, “he needs the rest. We should probably go to sleep soon, too.”

“You appear to be in the middle of a writing process,” Courfeyrac pointed out, gesturing at the papers next to himself on the desk. The law student didn't appear tired, his dark brown eyes as lively as always. There was tension in his shoulders but the whole group had had that since the death of general Lamarque.

“It's for university, not the revolution,” Combeferre replied, “so it can wait.”

“University? You have managed to concentrate on something else than tomorrow during the day?” Courfeyrac asked, amazed. “That's surprising.”

“I believe there's life after the change we make,” Combeferre shrugged. He had decided to believe everything would be fine. “It's good to do something ordinary every once in a while.”

“You're amazing.”

“Just reasonable, nothing more.”

They sat in silence for a moment after that, Courfeyrac on the table, Combeferre on the chair. Tomorrow would contain violence and death, which Combeferre was not looking forward to; no matter who died, it was wrong. He wished things could've been solved by talking, not with guns.

“Why didn't Enjolras want us with him tonight?” Courfeyrac asked quietly, tilting his head. “Is he tired of us?”

“I think he just needs time to prepare himself,” Combeferre replied. He knew exactly why Enjolras didn't want their company on the very night but he kept it to himself. Enjolras hadn't given him the permission to tell anyone so he didn't.

“It's a big day for him. It feels like I'm his father and he has finally grown up,” the law student said, smiling warmly.

“Does that make me his mother? It's a big day for all of us,” the taller man murmured, raising an eyebrow. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and ruffled his friend's sand brown hair.

“We've been good parents,” he concluded.

“I hope so,” Combeferre nodded, rising to stand and pulling Courfeyrac down from the table. “Now, sleep. We can't afford to be tired tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow,” Courfeyrac nodded, an excited smile in his eyes. Combeferre thanked the higher powers for letting him spend the night with an optimist.

\- - - - -

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras said, more to himself than to anyone else. He was standing at the window, letting his eyes sweep over the roofs of Paris. In the night it all seemed so peaceful and ordinary, but Enjolras knew better than that: underneath the calm surface, a storm was being born. It would break out tomorrow in general Lamarque's funeral.

It would've been lying to say Enjolras didn't have doubts; at the very moment he felt like he had little else. Had he doomed them all, his friends and himself, to death? Were their principles enough? Would tomorrow be the beginning of a revolution or a mere local uprising?

Would the people rise?

“Tomorrow,” Grantaire echoed softly, wrapping his arms around the taller man from behind. Enjolras leaned back against him, sighing at the feel of the dry lips planting a couple of light kisses onto the side of his neck. Grantaire was shorter than him, that was true, but he was stronger built. Leaning against him felt like leaning against a rock. Safe. Steady.

“I'd like to apologize for all the times I've spoken to you harshly,” the leader said after a moment of consideration, “just in case this is the last time I have the chance to do it.”

“I earned your anger and paid back by irritating you on purpose. No apologies are needed,” Grantaire mumbled sleepily. They had been seeing each other outside the meetings for nearly six months now, but that didn't mean they had stopped arguing. Nowadays their debates just led into kisses more often than muteness and angry glares. However, the evolution of their relationship hadn't changed either one of them so much: Enjolras still had his opinions, Grantaire his scepticism. Even on a moment like this the sceptic had no soothing words to offer.

They stood there for a while more before Enjolras turned around in the other man's arms and kissed his forehead.

“You should go to sleep. I'll stay here a moment more. Tomorrow is important,” he said. Grantaire looked deep into his eyes before nodding.

“Don't think too much,” he warned before heading for the bed. Enjolras felt cold after having the shorter man hold him for so long.

The first light of the sun got to spread itself across the roofs of Paris before Enjolras finally went to sleep, his chest heavy. Tomorrow had turned into today. Today would mean either change or death.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And we all know what happened with the revolution.
> 
> English is not my first language so please bear with me and feel free to correct me!  
> Find me in Tumblr: rrreira.tumblr.com


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